


Seek And You Shall Find

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gay Bar, Inspired by Music, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mycroft Feels, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock is Alone, Sibling Incest, Unrequited Crush, holmcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23525554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Both Holmes men struggle with getting hit on by women they don't fancy and by people who think they should find someone. In the end, they will.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 43
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have always loved Bette Midler's "The Rose", one of the most beautiful songs that have ever been written. It wouldn't let me go and somehow it led to this weird little story, which contains very little smut I'm afraid. And I have written a rather cracky story with a similar start some time ago, which I only realised half-way into this one, but it goes a very different way. Who knows, perhaps someone will like this fic!   
> Credits for the song text obviously go to the author, Amanda McBroom, and the awesome, wonderful Bette Midler.   
> If you want to support a poor little writer in times of THE VIRUS, consider giving kudos :)

**Whitehall**

Mycroft pressed the intercom button. “Yes, Anthea?”

“ _Lady Smallwood asks for a few minutes of your time, sir.”_

If anyone had been in Mycroft's office, they would have only been able to see the white in his eyes for a moment. _Not again_. But what should he do? “Send her in,” he replied as he really didn’t have much choice.

He had never called the private number she had given him, back then, before Eurus’ games in Sherrinford. Had realised, embarrassingly late, that his colleague had not only been out for having a drink and a sophisticated conversation. When he had finally understood where meeting her was supposed to lead, he had shrieked and threw the card away as if he had burnt his fingers. Nobody had seen that, either, thank God…

She had tried it again, of course. He had played oblivious. He was very good at that. She had regarded him with more than a hint of exasperation whenever he had casually changed the subject after one of her attempts but to his great relief, she had never directly told him that she wanted to ‘get to know him better’. But it had been there, between the lines, in fat, red letters. And hadn’t Anthea sounded a tad amused just now? Well, his observant PA would have hardly missed this unwelcome development. What had he done to deserve it anyway? All he wanted was his peace and quiet and being able to do his work.

But there she was, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood in all her glory, stalking into his office as if it was hers. Dressed impeccably in a business ensemble, with subtle makeup and a calm smile on her face. But he could see it. She regarded him as prey. Probably his refusal even served as a challenge for her.

“Mycroft,” she purred.

“Lady Smallwood.”

She sighed. “How many times have I told you to call me ‘Elizabeth’? Or ‘Lizzie’, if you prefer.” She sat down on the visitor’s chair at his rather tired gesturing at it.

Mycroft shuddered. ‘Lizzie’… Well it did fit. She had something of a lizard to her. Which promptly reminded him of another elderly woman, who had not so long ago called him a ‘reptile’. He and women – a story full of complications. At least Mrs Hudson wouldn’t try to make a move on him… Only with a frying pan, in all probability… “I am rather busy,” he said, ruder than he had planned. “What can I do for you?”

She gave him a sour look. “Busy. What is it with you men and work?”

“Well, it has to be done.” What was this supposed to mean at all? She was hardly painting her fingernails all day in her office. Even though they looked rather perfect...

“You must learn to live, Mycroft,” she said, pointing at him. “Have fun. You are still young!”

Yes. About twenty years younger than her… And it showed… Not that this mattered that much. Mycroft Holmes was not interested in women, old or young. He was homosexual. Gay. And he had never thought that he appeared straight. How could she not get that?

But then, some women simply didn’t. Like poor Miss Hooper, totally in love with his brother, who was, virgin or not, every bit as gay as Mycroft. They had never spoken about this of course but he was absolutely sure about it. If Sherlock ever chose to be with someone, it would be a man. It hadn’t kept Irene Adler from confusing his little brother thoroughly, and one reason for him to be so upset about Sherlock’s betrayal at Queen and country in order to please her was the fact that he would have never imagined that Sherlock would fall for the games of a bloody woman, a blackmailing, whip-swinging prostitute no less! And in Sherrinford, he had learned that she had not been beheaded but was obviously alive and kicking somewhere out there. Certainly Sherlock had saved her – under his very nose.

That was not his problem now though. “I do have fun,” he said stiffly. And he did! He loved watching films. He enjoyed a fine scotch. His library was huge. And he kept himself trim and healthy on his treadmill. He wasn’t a stiff borer who only lived behind his desk!

“If you say so…” The lady did not look convinced. “Go out with me. Enjoy a spring evening in town. And then… in my house…” She gave him a more than suggestive look.

“I have plans, sorry.”

“I didn’t say when!” she hissed.

“Oh. I… I am seeing someone,” he lied.

She shot up from her chair. “Yes, right. If you are not interested, just say it loud and clear.”

“I tried quiet and subtle, several times,” murmured Mycroft, unwisely, and she snorted and stalked out of his office, slamming the door.

Mycroft slumped in his chair and sighed. At least they were clear now and he supposed he would be safe of any further attempts from her now. But working with her would be more unpleasant than ever.

**Baker Street**

“Sherlock…”

“Huh?” The detective looked up from his phone. Boring. All the news were boring. Okay, some were also horrible but there was nothing he could have done about them. No exciting murder cases. No kidnappings of famous people’s children. Nobody holding the PM hostage. It was _hateful_.

“I wonder what you think about it.”

Oh. John had told him something. What? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. Had he even heard it before deleting it? His expression gave him away.

The doctor sighed. “You haven’t heard a word I just told you, right?”

“Perhaps not.” John had moved back into Baker Street when it had been rebuilt. A small room had been added for Rosie. It would not be sufficient forever. But the next words John said made him suppose that this time of the three of them together in 221B would be even shorter than expected.

“I told you that I met someone. She’s also a doctor, working in my clinic.”

“Oh. Great.” Sherlock nodded. Bit soon, wasn’t it? After all the pain about Mary – John’s and his own. On some days he could still feel the crack in his ribs…

John seemed to see his thoughts in his face and grimaced. “I know. It’s not been that long since Mary… But…”

“It’s all right, John. Life goes on.” And Rosie needed a mother. As far as he could say, John was a really good father for his daughter, and Molly and John’s mother and sister took her pretty often but still. It was not the same.

“Yes.” John nodded. “And… I think it’s time for you to find someone, too.”

“Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?” When had Sherlock ever appeared as someone who needed a partner?

“I mean… Call her. Visit her. Wherever she is.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John was talking about Irene… “John. Did you really believe me when I said I’d texted her? Don’t you remember when we first spoke about it and I said that I never answered her? All I wanted was to make you feel better about having exchanged texts with my sister when Mary was still alive.” It had been a tough thing to say and John winced.

“I… Yeah. I should have known.” John’s cheeks had flushed. “Still. You could…”

“I am gay, John. You never got that?”

“Oh. Well. You said that girlfriends are not your area.”

“And Mrs Hudson’s always thought we were a couple, so has Angelo. Never wondered why?”

“But you never had sex with a man, did you?”

“That doesn’t make me any less gay.” Sherlock was fed up with this conversation. He had never discussed his personal preferences with anyone and he did not like it. “Go out with whomever you want, John, but don’t stick your nose in my non-existent love life. I don’t need such… complications.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. And I have no problem with you being gay! I said it right at the start – it’s all fine. But I still think you should give it a try – love. We both know quickly everything can be over and you should make the best out of it… Who knows if there aren’t some more insane Holmes siblings who...”

“Shut _up_ , John.”

The doctor sighed and threw his hands into the air, but at least he did shut up.

**Mycroft’s House**

Mycroft groaned when his his phone rang after he had just entered the house. Nobody called him on his landline. Nobody apart from Mummy. He ignored it for now and headed to the bathroom to shower off a day full of stress and dealing with morons.

When he had sat down with a sandwich, the phone rang again. He knew he wouldn’t get away. Putting his frugal dinner back onto its plate, he took a deep breath and answered the phone.

A few minutes later, he was regretting this decision thoroughly. Not that his mother’s tirades about line-dancing, the weather, Mrs Milton’s cats in her garden, Father being a challenge etc. weren’t annoying in general – after asking him about Eurus’ progress (‘None, unfortunately’), she had the impertinence to ask him if he was seeing someone.

“No, Mummy,” he said. Where had this come from all at once? She hadn’t nagged about his lack of a love life – the word alone made him cringe – for about ten years, and he hadn’t missed it...

“ _We don’t get younger, Myc. It would be so lovely to have some grandchildren as long as can still use our brains and walk without a rollator.”_

He bit his tongue, keeping himself from asking her why she should want any offspring from her ‘very limited’ son. He had not quite forgiven her for her rather nasty rant when he had told his parents about Eurus. He got it – he had left them in the dark about Eurus’ existence but it wasn’t as if they otherwise would have been able to take her home to sing under the Christmas tree… And how could she not know that he was gay? Well, he hadn’t brought anyone home. Ever. He had never had a serious relationship and there hadn’t been anyone he could have introduced to his parents. And there wouldn’t be anyone, ever, and even if there ever was, it would be a man.

“I’ll leave this to Sherlock”, he said, which was a tad malicious towards his brother, but Sherlock didn’t hear it after all.

“ _Sherlock… Yes. But he can only adopt, can’t he? He and his doctor… They are together, aren’t they? He denies it but…”_

Mycroft hoped very much that Sherlock and the doctor were not and would never become this sort of partners. It was bad enough that Watson had moved back in with him. Sherlock might have forgiven and forgotten, but Mycroft would not forget how violently John had lashed out at his brother. “I don’t think so, Mummy. They are just friends, I guess.”

“ _But the doctor has a little girl, hasn’t he?”_

So she wanted little Rosie as her grandchild? Mycroft didn’t like this image. Not one bit. Which had nothing to do with the baby he had never met. “They are _not_ together,” he repeated, sounding exasperated to his own ears.

Mummy whined a bit more about her three children not making her a grandmother, and Mycroft shuddered at the thought that she might welcome a child born by Eurus. He didn’t even want to imagine how this would be produced (and he couldn’t shake off the image of Eurus biting off a guard’s head after forcing herself onto him like some spider or mantis) and what sort of character it would have – if it survived being with a mother that would probably hold it up by one arm and look at it, puzzled and disgusted.

Sherlock had visited Eurus quite a few times but she had made no attempt at returning to… well, normal. Not that she had ever been any kind of normal to begin with. But she didn’t even seem to be keen on games anymore, let alone on connecting with Sherlock. She just played the violin, day and night, and smiled in this absent, creepy way when Sherlock joined her playing. That was about it. Their meetings and her days in general had been thoroughly monitored, just in case she tried to cause mayhem again. And now Sherlock seemed to have given up wasting his time with her. Mycroft couldn’t say that he was very unhappy about that.

He finally managed to get Mummy off the line and sighed, staring at his sandwich. Somehow he didn’t have any appetite anymore. And he wondered if his brother was doing okay. And what he was doing, and he almost choked at the image that came to his mind when he remembered Mummy’s words about him and John.

**Baker Street**

“Oh. Hello, Molly. John and Rosie are not here.” John had told him where he wanted to go with the little girl but for the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t remember. His ability to pay attention to boring rambling seemed to decrease by the hour and he did not really know why.

She shrugged and gave him a half-smile. “That’s okay. I just wanted to… see how you are doing.”

Sherlock suppressed a sigh and waved her into the flat. “I’m doing fine. How are you?”

“Well, actually…”

Oh no. Not the post-Sherrinford-talk. He had postponed it and postponed it… And then he had basically forgotten about this _‘I love you’_ insanity. Now he was rudely remembered of it of course. He knew that John had explained to her that her life had seemed to be at stake. He had not told her that it had been Sherlock's sister who had claimed to have her under threat but she did know that it had seemed to be a dire necessity.

Somehow Mycroft and his staff had managed to sweep the disaster of this horrible day under the carpet. Sherlock was sure that there had been financial compensation for several people who had lost someone during Eurus’ nasty game. Nobody had run to the media with this scorching-hot story at least. No tear-filled interviews with relatives of the governor, his wife or the Garridebs. It was as if it had never happened. And nobody apart from the new people who were running the prison and the Holmes parents had gotten to know about Eurus’ existence. So Molly knew that Sherlock had not made this phone call to embarrass her, just not that he was related to the one who had grinned and said she would blow her flat up if she didn’t say those sodding words…

“You haven’t come to the morgue lately,” Molly mumbled when she had sat down in the visitor’s chair as if she was a client searching for help. Her shoulders were hanging, she looked thinner than ever and she gave, overall, not a very happy impression.

“No. No cases that required it.” Sherlock felt decidedly uncomfortable. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He didn’t even want to be here right now.

“You could have dropped by.”

Sherlock only nodded, trying to smile but only managing a probably scary grimace.

“I know that John met someone. And…”

Oh no. It was even worse than he had expected… “I’m fine,” he hissed.

She shook her head firmly. “No, you’re not.”

“Pardon me?”

“You always pretend that you don’t need anyone but I know you better.”

In fact she hardly knew him at all. “Listen, I can…”

“Go out with me. Have fun. Enjoy your life.”

“…as long as it lasts, yes, I’ve heard it all from John already. Did he tell you to talk to me?” But while he was saying this, he realised that his friend had not. Since he had brought it up two days ago, John had not once come back to this sore subject. And Molly didn’t just want him to go out and ‘have fun’. She wanted him to do it with _her_ because she seriously believed that he had spoken a hidden truth when he had told her the words which she had forced him to say. It was so stupid that it was breathtaking. He liked her, he had learned to respect her, he trusted her to be good at her job and that was it.

Molly had blushed. “No. Why should he? Oh. Sure, he is happy with Helen now and he would want you to spend time with me to…”

Sherlock huffed out a deep sigh. “I told him the same as I’m telling you now – I don’t want or need this relationship hokum. And I am _gay_. You understand? That means that even if I was interested in someone, it would be a _man_.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t believe you! You can’t even know what you really like. You never tried! We would be such a great match. We both like to work with corpses and…”

“Molly. Just stop it. It is not going to happen. I told you… _this_ because you forced me to. And I called you because I was forced to do that by someone very… malicious. This situation was every bit as ghastly for me as it was for you and I can assure you that I didn’t say these words because I meant them but because you didn’t leave me any choice!” He had gotten a tad louder than planned but _sometimes._..

Her bottom lip started to wobble and then a tear appeared in each of her huge eyes. “You are…”

“Yes. An arsehole, a bastard – believe me, I’ve heard it all before. But I am also very gay so just don’t waste your time with pining for me any longer. We can still work together and…” He winced when she shot out of the room and two seconds later, the door was slammed so hard that it’s hinges rattled.

He sighed deeply. Women!

He looked at his violin, which he had been playing before the doorbell had rung. Somehow he wasn’t in the mood to play anymore.

**Mycroft's House**

Mycroft sipped at his whiskey. A good one. An excellent one, actually.

Another long day lay behind him. He had chatted with the Queen. Discussed with Prince Charles. Argued with the Foreign Minister. A full day.

It had been nice to escape the office for the day. But now… Now he was sitting in his beloved armchair, indulging in a fine single malt. And somehow… he felt weird.

He shook his head over himself. Nonsense. Everything was like it should be. He would read the newspaper! Take a bath! Drink more whiskey!

He closed his eyes and sighed.

**Baker Street**

“Hey.”

“Hello, John. Had a good time?”

The doctor sat down in his armchair. “Yes. You?”

“Ah. Molly was here.”

“Oh. Not that good, huh?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Will probably not go to the morgue for experiments anytime soon.”

“Not that you would have done it for some weeks anyway.”

Sherlock had to admit it. Had he just stayed away from this hospital, which had been his second home for a long time, to avoid meeting Molly? Or just because experiments didn’t seem so attractive anymore?

During the weeks since Sherrinford, he had hardly done anything but solving cases and trying to make a connection with his sister. Which had failed miserably. He had not been in Sherrinford for nine days, he realised. And he felt no urge to go there anytime soon.

In fact, he felt no crying need for doing anything at the moment. His brain, which had never stopped haunting him all his life, had become rather quiet. It did work like it had always done when it was required for a case. But it wasn’t running wild anymore, forcing him to shut it down with just anything. Perhaps he had just grown up. Which reminded him of Mummy, who had in all seriousness called him ‘the grown-up’. What had she taken? Mycroft was the grown-up, had always been. That’s why _he_ had gotten the thankless job of containing Eurus after Uncle Rudy had passed away. Sherlock had understood that the parents had been upset. But they had definitely overreacted, and he had done his best to calm them down.

Strange… Mycroft had never shown up in Baker Street since then. Or texted him. Sherlock was pretty sure that he would know it if anything had happened to his brother. But he knew that he should check on him. Soon.

“So…” John gestured at his phone. “Anything exciting?”

Sherlock had scrolled through the news sites, just out of habit. Trump being an idiot. Wars. Climate crisis. A new gay bar opening up not that far from Baker Street. Their Prime Minister being an idiot. “Not really,” he said.

“Tea?” John asked.

“Sure.”

**Whitehall**

Another meeting survived, another day almost finished. It was Friday afternoon. For most people, this was a reason to celebrate. Mycroft usually also worked on weekends. Not in the office most of the times though. He always had some work he could take home. One could not read and watch films for forty-eight hours after all.

Somehow he was feeling a bit off. He realised that his shoulders had slumped when he been stalking towards the door of the meeting room. It was stupid of course. He wasn’t lonely! He had told Sherlock years ago and it was still true.

He almost shrieked when a hand was put onto his shoulder. But it was just the PM, who had a fetish for exchanging touches with his staff and never realised that this was not welcome.

“And, Holmes, what are your plans for the weekend?” he thundered, grinning at him. Was he mocking him? Mycroft’s suspicion was confirmed a moment later. “Will you go dancing? Have a stroll in the park with your sweetheart?”

Mycroft felt his cheeks flush, much to his chagrin. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

The PM, finding himself very entertaining, gave him a highly disturbing wink. “I know, Holmes, I know. You were already born middle-aged, weren’t you? Probably wearing a tiny little suit and tie?”

“Excuse me, sir, I need to go.” Mycroft’s voice was cold as ice and his boss shied away from him.

“Damn, I was just joking.”

“Most amusing.” Ignoring the muttering behind him and not caring that he had been rather impolite, he hastened away, uncharacteristically keen on leaving Whitehall behind for the next couple of days.

Fifteen minutes later, after glancing at a report that couldn’t wait until Monday and sending Anthea home, he left the building, deep in his thoughts. He put his collar up against a sudden cold wind. And when he was just about to walk towards the car that had driven up a moment before, he felt a sharp pain in his side and a young, male voice shouted, “Out of the way, grandpa!” before the boy with the silly cap snickered and went back onto his skateboard to go off like a rocket.

 _Grandpa?!_ Mycroft had enough. He really had enough now. Tonight he would go out and have fun and to hell with all those imbeciles! And before he could change his mind again, he took out his phone and started to investigate where he could go.

**Baker Street**

Sherlock was in a strange mood when he returned from the crime scene. It had been a rather appealing case, including bees, stab wounds and a bicycle. John had missed it because he’d had to go to the clinic. But that wasn’t what had spoilt his fun. In fact, he had no idea what had diminished his enjoyment of the game.

And then he walked towards the entrance of 221B and saw Mrs Hudson and her dear friend Mrs Turner chatting in front of it.

He tensed when he heard his landlady say, in a sympathetic tone, “He should really try to find someone. It’s not good for him to be all alone.”

“I shall let you know, Mrs Hudson, that I really do not need anyone to hold my hand,” Sherlock snapped, and she whirled around to him.

“Oh, Sherlock! But I was not talking about you! It was about old Mister Jackson from 218, he is…”

Sherlock winced and felt his cheeks flush. Without another word or listening to her explanations, he hurried into the house and ran up the stairs.

He shrugged off his coat, letting it drop where it fell, and hurled himself into his armchair, suddenly feeling as if he was a balloon that had lost all its air.

They were right. Even if Mrs Hudson had been talking about someone else. It did apply to him as well. He was missing something. Someone. After being a loner by choice for all his adult life, he had opened up to quite a few people since he had met John. He had started to depend on people – something he had avoided like the plague before, and rightly so. His life had been a roller coaster of disaster, loss and guilt for too long. So much had happened – the fake death, the chase for Moriarty’s accomplices, returning just to find John angry and attached to a woman he had grown to like – only to cause her death with his loose tongue. It had been her decision to take the bullet for him but it wouldn’t have flown without his careless showing-off. It had given his fragile friendship with John a bump it would never really recover from, no matter how many apologies had been made. The words he had forced out of Molly in Sherrinford – and vice versa – would forever stand between them now, and their recent conversation had probably been the nail to this coffin...

And he realised that he did want more than friendship anyway. Not from anybody of them, of course. He wanted… someone to love. How pathetic was this? Would it even work? With whom? He wasn’t compatible with people in general. But perhaps there was someone for him out there. Someone smart and elegant, interesting and eloquent. Someone he could really talk to, someone who would like to hear him playing the violin and talk about experiments and cases and… He sighed. The probability to find someone like this was zero to zilch... But it still could be, couldn’t it? He wouldn’t find out if he didn’t try. It was too late for him to go back not needing anyone. He had opened the gates with John and now he had to accept it.

He only briefly considered using a dating app. The thought made him shudder. He was very good at doing deductions, but it was much more difficult to deduce the truth behind online personas. People lied. All the time, under all circumstances, but in the web, they lied the most. An attractive man could, in reality, be looking like a troll, using the picture of a friend or a stranger. They would lie about their professions, interests, everything, just to appear more interesting than they were. He could filter out some of them but not all. People were compulsive liars, bottom line. And he really did not want to waste his time with finding out the truth about people he would have never wanted to meet if he had known it beforehand.

So what? Wait until the right one just popped up in Baker Street? He would probably be waiting forever.

“Uh-uh!”

Sherlock winced. “Mrs Hudson.” He sat up straight again.

“I’m bringing tea and truce.”

Sherlock smiled. “I am sorry. Please come in and sit down with me.” His friendship with her was the only one that had not suffered any cracks since his fake death. Well, he was fine with Lestrade, too, but they’d never had a very cosy relationship. He did trust him. But Mrs Hudson was like a mother for him – and since this ghastly episode with Mycroft telling them about Eurus and their harsh reactions, both of his parents were in his bad books. And he had never been able to talk about such matters with his mother. Or anyone, actually. But he felt he could talk to Mrs Hudson. She never judged him.

She sat down after pouring them a steaming hot cup of Earl Grey. She had even thought of the ginger nuts.

“You’re a saint, Mrs Hudson,” he claimed while taking the first biscuit.

“Oh!” She looked decidedly pleased. But also a bit cautious.

Sherlock sighed. “I know it’s true. Everybody told me and… I have to concede I might not be quite the sociopath I’ve always claimed to be anymore.”

The old lady smiled. “You never have been.”

“I wouldn’t say that. But times have changed.” Well, very recently, obviously. Having gotten friends years ago or not, cold-bloodedly killing Magnussen could very well be described as sociopathic. But Sherlock did not regret it. He did regret that he had forced his brother to watch this, and to take to such drastic measures – sending him to certain death in Eastern Europe.

_You don’t really think he would have let you die there, do you?_

Sherlock usually didn’t hear voices. But this one had a point. No. His brother had been pissed off and terrified, and only when he had learned about Eurus he had really understood why. Mycroft had feared that he was as evil as her. Mycroft didn’t have friends. He didn’t know what it meant to be determined to protect them, to the extent of killing for them.

 _He would kill for_ you _._

Yes. That was probably true. And Mycroft _would_ have gotten him out, Moriarty or not.

He realised that Mrs Hudson had been talking. A few words had come through to him despite not listening to her and it was easy to fill in the blanks.

He nodded. “Yes. I guess… I’m ready to find someone. But for the life of me I don’t know where.”

“Oh, dear.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “You don’t have to hurry anything. Just go where attractive young men go and maybe you find someone to talk to or even…” She made a shocking gesture with her hand, and Sherlock choked at his tea.

She giggled and patted his back until he could breathe again. “I’m sorry, dear. But finding this special someone is difficult for everybody, and even more so for someone as special as you.”

Sherlock gave her a wry grin. “You mean someone insufferable, arrogant and fastidious?”

“No. I meant too smart for the common people, knowing so much more than anyone else. You can’t just take the very first bloke that comes along; you deserve someone equally special.”

Sherlock had huge doubts that he would ever find someone like this. His expression made Mrs Hudson grin most un-motherly.

“Of course, you can always pick someone super sexy and…”

“I get it, I get it!” He held his hands up to stop her.

“Just be safe, Sherlock,” she added, serious now. “Not just physically. Don’t let anyone break your heart. It happens easily when you are too eager. And as smart as you are – you don’t have many experiences, do you?”

None at all, to be precise. But he didn’t plan to have his heart broken. “I’ll take care of myself, I promise.” And he knew now where he would go – to this brand new gay bar he had read about. In all probability, there would only be idiots there. He could basically see the slick-haired muscle men, hunting for a lay. But he had to start somewhere. It was Friday night, and Sherlock Holmes would go out to check out the goodies – incognito, of course. He would certainly not find the man of his dreams but perhaps there was someone who wasn’t a total waste of time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song to this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxvPjuREDpE
> 
> What is happening with this ship? Almost all writers gone and the readers, too? It's a shame. The Holmes boys deserve better, if you ask me ;)

“ **The Bonny Butterfly”**

He should have known it was a mistake. But it was too late now… Mycroft had tried to turn and escape the crowd in front of the entrance, but he was pushed forward and was there a hand on his arse?!

Unceremoniously, he stumbled into the dim bar, welcomed by the sounds of ‘Over The Rainbow’. He groaned. What would come next? ‘YMCA’? What had he been _thinking_?

But somehow he found his way to a free table and slumped on a chair, looking around, frightened, at the madness that was going on around him. To be fair, it was actually rather civilised. The music was annoying and so clichéd that it hurt but it was not ear-deafening loud at least. The men, placed on barstools and standing around in groups, some sitting at tiny tables like he was, were mostly tattooed, trim and bearded but there were also some who looked rather normal. The interior was tasteful and nobody was having intercourse on the small dance floor in the middle of the large room – he had not been to the restroom so far though...

He was feeling totally out of place nonetheless. Not looking like his usual British-Government-self but dressed in a slim-fit black suit without a waistcoat and a tie, the poor rest of his hair styled with some sticky fluid, he felt like an alien among these men. They were not only young men – some were clearly older than him. But… This was the stupidest idea he’d ever had, and this included going to Sherrinford, thinking he could overpower his sister so easily. He didn’t belong here. He should be at home, sipping his best whiskey, and forget that there were goldfish outside.

He blushed and quickly looked the other way when a tall man with a bald head and all the more hair in his face winked at him. About what would he talk with anyone in this place? He had nothing in common with other gay men. He didn’t wax his body – okay, there were quite a few rather hirsute men around, too, mostly wearing very few clothes. He had never slept around – in fact he could hardly remember when he had last had even kissed someone. His kind of music was Mozart and Bach, not Gloria Gaynor belting out ‘I Will Survive’. He couldn’t talk about his job with anyone as it was top secret. He had no hobbies anyone here would share – none of those guys looked as if they favoured philosophical books and black-and-white _film noir_. He knew that he was a snob but it was the sad truth that he should not be here, expecting to find someone he could ‘have fun with’. His kind of fun was definitely incompatible with other people’s habits. Or had he even, deep inside, considered that he might find someone to... fall in love with? In this case, he should have his brain checked… A man like him did not do sentiment. He...

“Hello sweetie – what are you drinking?”

Mycroft stared up at the waiter – an amazingly attractive man with short, blond hair, in his early twenties, with perfect teeth, blue eyes, having a professional smile on his lips.

 _Sweetie_ … Nobody had ever dared call him by such a name! “Um, I don’t know if I should stay, actually…” Usually he didn’t sound that clumsy – or intimidated by goldfish and their places. But this was not the Iceman. This was just a man out of his depth.

“Ah, don’t be shy. Nobody’s going to bite you in here. Except if you ask us to do it…” He winked at Mycroft, and it looked decidedly self-ironic.

Mycroft gave him a wry grin. “That is good to know but I should really…” What he had wanted to say kept stuck in his throat as someone raced through the entrance, looking around suspiciously and with rather scared eyes, and walked to a table on the other side of the dance floor and fell onto a chair graciously. He had his thick, black hair slicked back, he was wearing jeans and a tight, red shirt and looked, all in all, very different from his usual appearance, but Mycroft would have recognised him everywhere – his little brother.

But in the split second before he had realised that this man who had just burst into the room was actually the world’s only consulting detective, who was very closely related to him, his jaw had dropped at this alleged stranger’s elegant gorgeousness and amazing beauty, and this thought terrified him to the bones, his legs seemed to have turned into jelly and his eyelids were twitching wildly.

And then the young waiter patted his shoulder and said, “I’ll bring you a whiskey without ice, shall I?” and Mycroft could do nothing but nod as he wouldn’t have brought out a word if his life had depended on it.

*****

Darkness in his eyes and his heart, Sherlock downed his scotch. A waiter that looked like a porn star had asked him what he wanted to drink in a voice that suggested that he could also suck his cock anytime. What a bloody mistake it had been to come here – and if Sherlock hadn’t felt so down, he would have rushed out already. But a sadness that seemed to engulf his heart was basically paralysing him.

What had he been thinking? That he would find anyone he could be with in a bloody bar with a silly name? He had only briefly glanced at the crowd and lost all the hope he hadn’t thought he even had in a sudden rush. Unfortunately, he had drawn attention to himself just by sitting at this little joke of a table, brooding and gloomy.

“ _Hello, I’m David and…”_

“ _Not interested.”_ Sherlock hadn’t even looked up.

There was nobody for him. He was like an alien in this world, sentenced to watch other people’s happiness without ever being able to participate.

“ _Damn, you are cute! Can we…”_

“ _Not in this life.”_

He recalled John’s and Mary’s wedding. He had felt exactly the same way back then – watching his friends dance, feeling excluded and depressed.

“ _Hello, do you dance?”_

“ _No.”_

Sherlock closed his eyes. He might be the smartest man in this room but in the end, this was a curse, not a blessing. The idiots and imbeciles and morons were so much happier than him.

“ _Can I buy you a drink?”_

“ _Go away.”_

He had to leave now. But something… something seemed to glue him to his chair. He buried his face in his hands. What a fucking mess his life had become. Wanting someone at his side for the first time in his life, only that there was nobody who would ever interest him. Nobody who…

“Hello, Sherlock,” said a voice he knew all-too-well.

He almost shot up from his chair, staring up in the face of the very last man he had expected to meet tonight.

But my God… This was _Mycroft_? Looking ten years younger, his hair stylishly tousled, his cheeks flushed, his light-blue eyes seeming to glow, his pink lips parted, his tongue nervously licking his lips. No umbrella, no conservative suit, no sour expression. He was… breathtaking…

Sherlock felt like dropping off his chair in total confusion and shock at his reaction to his big brother. And then he saw how Mycroft was regarding him and his heart seemed to stop. “What… Why…”

Mycroft swallowed and grimaced and turned to gesture at the waiter for another drink, and Sherlock knew that he had hardly ever been in need of one more than now.

*****

Mycroft had never needed more bravery in his life before. It had taken him ages to gather enough courage to get up and walk across the room to face his brother, who had not discovered him in the pretty dark room. His legs had been shaking when he had closed the distance.

He had watched all those men trying to get Sherlock's attention. To dance with him, maybe. Buy him a drink. And all for the purpose of getting into his pants.

He had _hated_ it. How dare any of these attractive, young, muscular men try to seduce his little brother?

Oh, he knew he was being totally unreasonable. Sherlock was here for a reason, and he had come to the conclusion very soon that this reason was not a case. He had come to meet someone, anyone. No date but a try to connect with a stranger.

So Sherlock had been feeling the same? Being lonely? Ready to enter the minefield of relationships? Perhaps only a one-night-stand, perhaps more? Had someone told him to get someone? Probably, yes. One or more of his friends.

But Sherlock did not look happy at all. He had hardly if at all looked at those admirers and he had bitten them all away. As if he was waiting for someone. Someone special.

And he had known that this man could only be him. Laws, morals and _wrong!_ aside – nobody would ever understand Sherlock like he did. Nobody could care more about him than he did. He would never beat him like John had done. Never demand anything from him that he wasn’t able or willing to give. If he had been so inclined, he would have believed that destiny had led them both here tonight. Coincidences did not exist after all. The universe was rarely so lazy. So there was a reason behind them being here, in a place most improbable for meeting a Holmes.

Not by any stretch of the imagination, he could have voiced these thoughts now that he was sitting opposite of Sherlock, who was gaping at him like a fish. He knew that Sherlock could see it in his eyes as his shields were not in place. They had fallen down and been shattered, and he didn’t even care. If he could have spoken, he would have told Sherlock that only in his hands, his heart would be safe. That he would comply with his every wish, and Sherlock wouldn’t even have to speak them out – he would deduce them. That he had loved Sherlock since he had been born, and now he knew that this love had reached a new dimension and it would seem wrong to everybody else but he could feel that it was not. He had always been, or tried to be, Sherlock's keeper, and if Sherlock would only let him, he would keep him from being lonely and feeling out of place. Because they both were, weren’t they? Not only here – nobody out there understood their brains, their thoughts, their specialness.

But then he froze. Sherlock had never really liked him, had he? He despised him, actually… Thought he was a lazy office borer. And a loser when it came to difficult situations like in Sherrinford… What had he been thinking? Desperately, he looked into Sherlock's still wide-open eyes. His brother had not even moved since he had sat down. He had been so embarrassed by Mycroft approaching him here.

“I… I should go,” he rasped out. “I hope… you will find… Excuse me.” Somehow he found a few notes in his pocket to pay for his drinks, and then he ran out of the sodding bar as if all the hounds of hell were at his heels.

*****

If it hadn’t been for the song, Sherlock would have probably not moved from his chair until the bar closed and he would have been carried outside by his arms. What he had seen in his brother's eyes had… shocked him? Almost broken him? Made his heart stop? Had Mycroft always wanted him like he obviously did now, and why had he never realised that? Or had it happened spontaneously? In any way it was shocking, frightening, something that could never be and it had put him into a state of total lock-down.

And then the song started to play.

He remembered having heard it before, a long time ago. A beautiful woman’s voice, rich and strong and emotional. On any ‘normal’ day, he would have paid it no heed, would have dismissed it as unforgivably sentimental. But at his most vulnerable, he listened, and she seemed to speak directly to him and her words seemed to trickle into his heart and made him _see_.

_Some say, ‘Love. It is a river  
That drowns the tender reed’  
Some say, ‘Love. It is a razor  
That leaves your soul to bleed’  
Some say, ‘Love. It is a hunger  
An endless aching need’  
I say, ’Love. It is a flower  
And you its only seed’ _

And he thought: Mycroft would never do any harm to him or his heart. Mycroft had always been the one to look after him. Within a second, a myriad of memories flooded his brain. Of Mycroft, reading to him at his bedside when he had been a little boy. Of teaching him how to build a mind palace. Of pulling him out of a drug den with his lips pressed together – not in exasperation but in concern.

Mycroft would, like he had not so long ago literally said, always be there for him. Mycroft, who had looked so gorgeous tonight. Whom he had seen, really seen, as a man, not his brother, for the very first time. He had looked like a stranger, a very handsome, tall, attractive stranger – but his eyes had been the same, only softer. No Iceman had come to his table. And not merely his brother. It had been a man who wanted him. A man who wasn’t a stupid moron. Who knew how he was ticking. Who had always had his back – who could ever forget the moment when he had offered to die at his hands in Sherrinford? A brave, deeply decent man. Smarter than him. Someone who would always be able to challenge him.

_It's the heart afraid of breaking  
That never learns to dance  
It's the dream afraid of waking  
That never takes the chance  
It's the one who won't be taken  
Who cannot seem to give  
And the soul afraid of dyin'  
That never learns to live_

Was he afraid of the feelings his own brother had just woken up in him? Oh yes. But all the men he had seen tonight had been of no interest to him. They had bored him. He had not talked to any of them but he had deduced them as if they had been one organism. They were not meant for him. What if Mycroft was his brother? Did that really matter? Was he really too afraid to take a chance on being happy, even if that meant hiding it from everybody he knew? No. He was many things but he was not a coward.

_When the night has been too lonely  
And the road has been too long  
And you think that love is only  
For the lucky and the strong  
Just remember in the winter  
Far beneath the bitter snow  
Lies the seed that with the sun's love  
In the spring becomes the rose_

Was he different from all the people around him? Yes. Did he think that he really deserved love? Probably not. All his life he had been mocked for his differentness. Feared for his sharp tongue. John had seen what was beneath of this. He had lost him in many ways though. And he had felt lost recently. Ever since John had gotten married, actually. He had felt that something was missing in his life. And what had led him here? A premonition that he had not grasped beforehand?

Perhaps he really had this seed of love inside of him. And the expression in his brother's face had been the sun to make it start growing. Mycroft knew him like nobody else. He had always accepted him as he was, only striving to keep him on safe grounds. He had seen his worst and had never let him down. Because Mycroft _knew_. He knew like nobody else what it meant to be blessed and cursed with such a mind. He would understand. And he would always care.

This was all a sentimental mess, horribly irrational and something he would have not so much as touched a week ago. But now he felt that it was his only chance at happiness. And Mycroft? He had been terrified by his own courage to show Sherlock his feelings, and by Sherlock's stupid reaction. Would he even want to give it a try anymore?

Sherlock knew he had to be convincing. How, he did not know. But he was Sherlock Holmes He would figure it out or die trying.

Five minutes later, he was sitting in a cab.

**Mycroft's House**

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The word had been echoing in his mind all the cab-ride home. It was still haunting him now that he was standing under the coldest shower he had ever taken. If he had already been the stupid one in Sherrinford, it was even truer now. He had fucked up. Had shown Sherlock feelings no little brother wanted to see, and Sherlock had been shock-frozen and would hate him now forever.

He had even switched off his phone, in the poor attempt at avoiding a call that would probably never come anyway. But if Sherlock called him, then only to shout at him and call him a pervert and ask him if he had been lusting after him already when he had been a toddler…

He had not! He had never had such feelings for Sherlock.

Or…

If he was really, brutally honest to himself, he thought while scrubbing the silly hair product from his head, he might have developed these feelings years ago. Impossible to say when. But if he’d had to guess, he would have said when they had prepared Sherlock's mission to dismantle Moriarty’s network. They had been spending so much time together, much more than they’d ever had since Sherlock had grown up. And it had been a tense time but he had also enjoyed being around his brother so often. He had not exactly desired him back then – not consciously. But perhaps he had started to see the man, not the little brother.

And now he had to face the fact that he definitely desired him, and this would not go away. But it didn’t matter, did it – Sherlock would now avoid him like the plague for the rest of his miserable life and that was exactly what he deserved.

Shivering, he left the shower cubicle, took the next best towel and rubbed his treacherous body off vigorously. Disgusted by himself, he glanced into the mirror, seeing a suffering, ugly man who should crawl under a rock and never come out again.

Letting the towel drop where it fell, he stumbled out of the bathroom – directly into his bedroom, where Sherlock was sitting on his perfectly made bed, looking up to him with a sheepish expression.

“Oh God!” He wildly looked around for something to cover his intimate parts but Sherlock got up.

“Calm down, it’s okay.”

“Nothing is okay!” Mycroft whined, grabbed a shirt and put it onto his groin. “I’m so sorry. Please, can we just pretend nothing happened?”

“Nothing _has_ happened,” Sherlock stated, not sounding disgusted at all, rather nervous.

“Of course, no, nothing,” stammered Mycroft. And the thought hit him like a brick – had he only imagined that Sherlock had deduced his immoral thoughts? Perhaps his baby brother had only been horrified to meet him in this bar, giving away that he was in search of a man. Oh dear. He was even stupider than he had thought. He should quit his job and become a dustman or…

And then Sherlock grabbed his still rather slippery shoulders and shook him. “Stop thinking such nonsense, Mycroft. It is okay. Fine. I… I think we should talk.”

Mycroft shook his head so firmly that his teeth rattled against each other. “No. Don’t want to talk. Pretend you never met me there.” He grinned at Sherlock, and it had to look like the grimace of a skull.

“And… if I don’t want that?” Sherlock was whispering, his eyes looked frightened.

“Pardon?” He must have developed hallucinations. Sherlock could not seriously consider to… be with him?

“Come. Sit down.”

“I can’t. I’m naked!”

Did Sherlock really grin at that?! “Then get dressed if you feel better. I will go downstairs and wait for you in the living room, is that okay?”

Mycroft had no idea if it was. What was going on. But he nodded. “Yes. I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock gave him a cautious smile. A sweet smile, too. Encouraging. Anxious, though.

 _He really concedes being with me_ , Mycroft realised when Sherlock had slipped out of the room. It was impossible but Mycroft could feel hope raising its fragile head in his heart. He hurried to get dressed in plain, black trousers and a simple blue shirt. And then he hastened downstairs to see if his little brother was really still there, willing to talk about something absolutely scandalous.

*****

How did one start such a conversation? Was there a guide anywhere? _‘How to tell your brother that you want him to be your boyfriend’_?

Well, there was nobody to help him out here. He could hardly call Mrs Hudson and ask her how to tell his brother that he wanted him to be more than a brother now. Not that Mycroft didn’t know that already. But Mycroft was no help, either. He was sitting opposite of him in a large armchair, staring at him with an expression full of caution – as if he feared that Sherlock would go up in flames any moment.

Sherlock cleared his throat. They couldn’t sit here in this awkward silence forever. They had actually done so for barely five minutes but it had felt like an eternity. “I… I went to this bar because I thought I might meet someone.”

Mycroft nodded. So had he, obviously.

“But… They all annoyed me. It was ridiculous, thinking I could be with any of those guys. I would only insult them and I… couldn’t even imagine touching any of those people. They talked to me and I could only snarl at them.”

Mycroft nodded again. “I… watched you. And… I didn’t like it.”

Sherlock's pulse sped up. “You… were jealous?”

After a moment, Mycroft shrugged. “Yes. I was. But… it was more than that.”

Now Sherlock nodded vehemently. “You thought they are not good enough for me. Too stupid, too whatever.”

“Yes,” Mycroft confessed.

“But _you_ are clearly not.”

“Well… They were certainly more attractive than I am but…”

Mycroft thought he was not handsome? Had he looked into a mirror recently? “Not true. Your… eyes… and… tall and long legs and…” God, Sherlock mocking the morons? He sounded like the worst of them.

But his message had come across nonetheless. Mycroft blushed and it looked decidedly cute. “You… think I’m handsome?”

“I don’t _think_ that. I can see it. _Everybody_ can see it.”

Mycroft looked pleased but shrugged again. “Nobody came to _me_ tonight.”

“Probably because you scared them. You are very good at that.”

“I don’t really think I looked very scary. But perhaps… being the Iceman has become such an integral part of me that I don’t realise it anymore. The waiter was nice to me though. Well, it’s his job. And another guy winked at me.”

Sherlock felt a pang of jealousy. “See. They did notice you. And perhaps they did come to your table or wherever you were placed, but they didn’t dare talk to you. In any way… none of us belonged there. Belongs to anyone out there. Because we are not like them.”

“Goldfish,” Mycroft nodded. “Out of our league.”

“Yes. But we… We are not.”

“No.”

Sherlock gathered all his courage. “And… I don’t want to be alone anymore. I was desperate to find someone because I felt that I needed to. But not just _anyone_. You.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “Are you sure? Because if this goes wrong and I lose you completely…”

“Not going to happen. Once you mocked me for having premonitions. I have one now. Says that this was meant to happen. You always said that there are no coincidences.”

Mycroft got up and sat down next to him on the sofa. But with some distance between them. “When I think about this, I have to admit it is rather stupid. If there are no coincidences, there must be destiny, and therefore premonitions do make sense. I… have the utmost respect for yours now.”

And really – of all the places they could have gone to, they had both chosen the same bar. On the same evening. If this wasn’t destiny, what was? “I think… we should find out if we are… compatible,” Sherlock rasped out. “Apart from our brains, which definitely are.” Not that this had kept them from bickering like fishwives for decades but this was not going to happen again.

“Yes. And… How do we do that?”

“By kissing?” Sherlock almost stumbled over this foreign word. And the thought of actually doing it made him feel all tingly and anxious.

“Yes? You want to do this?” Mycroft sounded as if he couldn’t believe his luck – but also as if he was almost scared to death.

Sherlock nodded. He couldn’t get out another word.

And a moment later, Mycroft had closed the distance between them, had put his hand onto his shoulder and offered him his mouth, and all Sherlock had to do was bending forward and pressing his lips on Mycroft's, and in the moment he did that, he knew with absolute certainty that he had found what he had been looking for.

*****

All the doubts and the fear and basically reality as he knew it crumbled and shattered when Mycroft closed his arms around his baby brother and had Sherlock's hot tongue bravely sliding into his mouth. This was right. It felt right so it was. Mycroft had never believed in feelings, never believed in romantic love, but he was absolutely sure that he had to give into this. This could have been the road to doom but he was strangely convinced that it was the road to heaven instead.

Sherlock tasted sweet and wild and foreign and Mycroft could have kissed him forever. Somehow he found himself lying flush against his brother – Sherlock had pulled him with him when he had lain down on the sofa. Mycroft had fallen asleep plenty of times on it, when he had read reports after coming home from the office, or when he had been watching television, but he had never lain on it with a man.

And this was not just any man. This was _Sherlock_. His baby brother. In a distant part of his brain he could hear his mother scream in terror at what was happening, at how Sherlock's hands freed him from his shirt and slid beneath his pants to grab his arse, but he silenced it quickly and forever. This was nobody else’s business and especially not their mother’s – it was their life and they both wanted this and to hell with anybody else. And even though a rational part of his mind said that they should not rush things like this and that it would be better to take it slow and get to know the man, not the brother, better before actually doing anything like this, but he paid it no heed. Sherlock was setting the pace as he should be, and he had chosen a fast pace, and that was fine with him.

And so he was pawing at Sherlock’s body, having been quickly freed of every stitch of clothing, every bit as eagerly as Sherlock was stroking and caressing him. He couldn’t remember having been so aroused in his life, and the adoration he could see in Sherlock's eyes when his brother explored him with his hands and then lips made him feel dizzy with joy. Sherlock could have had all these men who had tried to get his attention this evening, but he had chosen him, and perhaps this made it feel more real and less otherworldly – having Sherlock licking his nipples into hard little peaks, having his brother's hand sliding up and down his cock, having Sherlock begging for taking him.

There was no way to do this here and without proper preparation, and he didn’t want to interrupt their petting to go upstairs and very certainly it _was_ too early for actual intercourse so he shushed his brother with kisses and rubbed their hot erections together with his hand instead while the fingers of his other hand were massaging Sherlock's entrance – and God did he want to bury himself in it but craving it until it would really happen would be so sweet, wouldn’t it. And then Sherlock cried out into his mouth, shooting hot liquid against his stomach, making him do the same within seconds, and it still felt right and sweet and wonderful.

*****

Sherlock, feeling dizzy from his strong orgasm, his first orgasm caused by another person, almost fell off the sofa when he tried to shift his weight, but Mycroft's surprisingly strong arm caught him just in time, and a moment later his head was resting against a slightly sweaty, hairy chest.

And he knew this would always be like this, as it had always been that way, if he had acknowledged it or not – Mycroft, having his back, catching him before he could fall, providing safety and care. He had been searching for something he had not even believed in, but he had found it in the person of this man he had known all his life. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself looking up to his big brother with eyes full of adoration when he had been a little child. He had basically learned everything he had known from Mycroft until his brother had gone to uni. For a long time, they had been on opposite sides, and he knew that he was the one to blame for this. He had resented Mycroft for leaving him behind when he had moved to Cambridge and then London. The drugs had brought them even further apart. They had stopped knowing each other.

Perhaps they had to go through their estrangement as brothers to find each other as lovers now. In any way Sherlock wouldn’t let his brother go again. They needed to keep this a secret and it would probably not be that easy – Mrs Hudson had sharp eyes and an even sharper mind when it came to matters of the heart. Perhaps she would even support them. Perhaps all his friends would.

It didn’t matter now _. They_ mattered – the two weird Holmes brothers, united in ways they had both never considered before. It would probably be hard work – they had driven each other mental for decades after all. But Sherlock knew that everything would be good. He had all data and it formed a picture of love and bliss and trust. And so he drifted off to sleep, held by his big brother’s arms, and it was all fine. For both brothers Holmes, the days of loneliness were over.

The End


End file.
